


A. Z. Fell and Co.

by ShenanigansEnsue



Series: Ineffable Dads [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 05:30:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21156401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShenanigansEnsue/pseuds/ShenanigansEnsue
Summary: It has taken Peter Walsh a long while to find the mysterious A. Z. Fell and Co.  Given some of the rumors, he's ready for just about anything, except for maybe the owner's daughter and her giant black snake.





	A. Z. Fell and Co.

**Author's Note:**

> I just really wanted to write Peter and Isabelle meeting, okay?

Peter Walsh stood silently for a long while staring up at the words scrawled carefully across the top of the corner shop. 

A.Z. Fell and Co. had long been a rumor among the lecture halls at University, particularly in the religious studies department. Students, professors, and even professors of the professors talked about the shop like it was a mystic castle on the moors, only appearing in the light of a blue moon. 

Despite his major or perhaps because of it, Peter put little stock in the supernatural. Similar description of the supposed owner across all tellings as a dapper, slightly plump middle-aged gentlemen with white blonde hair and blue eyes and a propensity to kick one out of the shop with polite determination, could be written off with some degree of logic. 

Strong genetics could certainly be a factor if the business was passed down through the generations. There was also the fact people had the amazing ability to create images out of whole cloth. For example, it is widely accepted in the western consciousness that the devil is associated with fire and the color red. There was no evidence for it and even some decidedly against, but the image isn’t liable to die any time soon. A.Z. Fell and Co. and its mysterious owner had simply fell victim to a similar affliction, Peter was sure of it.

All the same, there were things about the stories that did intrigue him; namely, the supposed quantity of quality religious text which lay within it’s walls. It was why he had tried to find it when he was in London, how he came to discover it had moved some twenty-five years previously, and was what finally brought him to the South Downs to a tiny shop snuggly placed in the corner of a quaint seaside village. It had taken him some time to get there and he wanted to breath in the moment of a job well done.

“Right,” he told himself. “Best foot forward then.”

A small chime of the bell welcomed him as the distinct musk of old books washed over his senses.

It was a bookshop if ever a shop had books in it. It was the kind of bookshop he read about as a child just before the protagonist was whisked away on some wild adventure. It had the right smell, the comforting soft browns of faded spines and the perfect temperature for curling beside the nearest window and laying there for hours.

He only had to take a cursorily glance at the titles to know the rumors didn’t do the collection justice. He picked up a random book to find not only was it a first edition of _The Voyage Out_, but it was signed by Virginia Woolf herself. 

Upon seeing the signature, he all but snapped the book shut and placed it back on the shelf. He wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to breath near the collection.

His eyes made a quick turn around the space. There was no one else there. Not even the mysterious owner who he was growing more curious to see. The door was unlocked and there was no closed sign. Just as it occurred to him, he ought to call out to someone, he heard a small rustling behind one of the shelves followed by low, indistinguishable whispers.

He let out a small breath, relieved he hadn’t accidentally committed a minor felony, and wandered over to the line of shelves. He turned the corner ready to greet the mysterious Mr. Fell, but the words died before they could even enter his throat.

A woman stood before him. A very pretty woman. A very pretty woman near his own age, who looked more at home among the shelves than anyone had a right to. She was dressed like a bookkeeper from her long skirt and buttoned up blouse to her large round spectacles. In her hand was cradled a tanning copy of what could only be a first edition of Oscar Wilde’s _Poems in Prose_. Even her mass of black curls only seemed to cement the impression of an eccentric intellectual as they perfectly framed her high cheekbones and brought a compliment to her dark skin.

The only thing to prevent his eyes from focusing solely on her, was their current preoccupation with the massive black python wrapped around her neck as comfortably as a knitted scarf. Its large head hung gently in the air at the same level where the woman held her book. If Peter hadn’t known better, he might have thought it was reading along.

“Can I help you?”

The words snapped him back to attention as he tore his eyes away from the snake.

He was suddenly very aware of the pounding in his chest and the fact his eyes had been wide open for solid minute. He blinked a few times in a row to make up the difference all while willing his heart to move back to a jogging speed.

He focused his attention now fully on the woman. This did little to help his nerves, but he found it easier to deal with. He had only been scared silent by something capable of killing twice in his life. One time after crossing through the neighbor’s yard when he was six only to be confronted with their rather enthusiastic guard dog and another after nearly getting hit by a spooked horse when he was twelve. Both experiences left him rather shaken and he hadn’t developed a system for coming down after the experience. Being scared silent by girls decidedly prettier than him, however, was something he had perfected.

“R-religious texts?” he managed.

The women stared at him a moment, a look of surprise quickly running across her features. “Two shelves down, near the front desk.”

Peter nodded, and quickly moved in that direction.

He was only partially aware of the murmuring behind him. The words “your idea” and “doesn’t scare easy” being the only clear ones. A part of him wanted to linger on the words and their meaning, but more pressing matters pushed the urge aside; namely, the largest collection of Bibles and books of prophecy he had ever seen in his life. 

His mouth gaped as he stared at the titles. It was a theologian’s dream come true. 

He let his eyes wander up and down the shelves not daring to soil any of the spines with his bare hands. He wondered if he should ask for a pair of gloves, but quickly dismissed the notion. The idea of having to face both the woman and her snake gave him a fresh wave of anxiety. Instead, he pulled his sleeve over his hand and carefully pulled a book off the shelf.

A deafening hiss came from behind the book just before a flash of black scales snapped out of the dark opening.

Peter jumped back, barely managing to keep hold of the book. The snake stared back at him with dangerous yellow eyes. Another hiss filled the air as its tongue flicked in and out of its open mouth. Peter then remembered snakes smelled with their tongues and was left with the same feelings a chicken has when cornered by hungry fox.

“That one isn’t for sale.”

The voice came straight into his left ear. He whipped around to see the woman standing barely three feet from him. Her arms were crossed, her eyes narrowed, and her lips were pressed into a fine line. In that moment, he wasn’t sure if he should be more frightened of her or the snake.

With caution, he slowly moved his hand back toward the shelf. 

The snake seemed to understand as it retreated from it hole, allowing him to put the book back in its place. Unfortunately for Peter, the snake had decided to take a more precarious spot on top of the bookshelf, allowing it to keep its eyes on him and within biting distance.

Peter moved down the shelf, his eyes glancing between the snake, books, and the woman equally. His hand went for another title only for the snake to give the same warning hiss.

“That one isn’t for sale either,” the woman confirmed.

Peter didn’t even bother to look as he hand when for another book. 

Another hiss.

“Not that one either.”

A pause followed. Peter felt the need to stay something, but the number and variety of stressors currently looking at him left him drawing a blank. He could only think in clichés and so let out a cough.

“Are these all on reserve?” he asked.

The woman’s expression didn’t change. “They’re not for sale.”

He nodded. His mind clinging to the wall as it crept cautiously towards an idea. He wasn’t going to leave empty handed. He was sure about that, but clearly a change of tactics was in order. Part of the legend of this place was the owner attachment to all of his books. Of course, he wouldn’t have a shop if he didn’t want people to at least look at the books, would he?

“Well, what if I don’t want to buy one?” he said, his mouth moving at the same pace as he mind; slowly, but with forward momentum.

“Excuse me?” The woman’s tone was more curious than accusatory. 

Peter felt a small relief, giving him the boost he needed and picked up speed.

“I just want to look at them,” he explained. “I’m a student, you see, and frankly I can’t afford this stuff to begin with. Not stuff! I don’t mean it like that. I just mean…this is an amazing collection and I wouldn’t want to sell them either. But, you see, I really, really need to look at these books. Study them, I mean. I’ve got a dissertation to finish by PhD, and I literally can’t find works like this anywhere else. You don’t have to sell them to me, if you don’t want. And if you’ve got buyers for some of them, I understand, but if I could just read them. I’ll rent them if you like. Or hold my kidney’s ransom or whatever it is you want, but…”

He took a breath, finally getting his thoughts in some kind of coherent order.

“The simple fact is; I need these books. And they’re not going to be much use to anyone sitting on the shelf. Books are meant to be read and appreciated and learned from, and that’s what I’m trying to do. So, let me. Please.”

The woman, stared up at him with an unreadable expression. Despite his instincts, Peter maintained eye contact. Even if he couldn’t express why, he knew it was imperative he didn’t so much as blink during her investigation.

A small tug came to the corner of her lip until it formed into an amused half smile.

“That was quite an impassioned speech.”

She looked just a little impressed with him, and Peter felt his heart beat harder against his ribs. He was sure he was blushing too but was in no position to do anything about it.

“I meant it,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady, given the state of his insides.

“I’m sure you did. Was that your plan all along?”

“What?”

“Well you’re not from around here, obviously,” she said, matter-of-factly. “So that must mean you heard about this place when it was in London. And if you heard of it, you must have also heard about how the owner doesn’t actually like to part with part of their collection.”

Peter knew this was coming to something and so said cautiously, “More or less.”

“So that begs the question,” the woman continued, “was your plan to come all the way down here to the South Downs, to treat the shop as your own personal library?”

Peter opened his mouth. It hung there a moment, but no sound came out. He closed it again.

She looked at him expectantly, with the same unreadable expression he was starting to think was her default setting.

“It wasn’t plan A.” He said it slowly, unsure what line he crossed but trying to show atonement for whatever it was.

The woman let out a laugh. It was clear, bright, and if it hadn’t been at his expense, he would have enjoyed it immensely.

“I’m just messing with you,” she assured. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

Peter blinked. “What really?”

She nodded. “I’ll have to double check with Papa, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“Oh,” he said, unable to keep the smile off his face. The legend might still have some truth to it yet. “Your Papa is the owner, then?”

“Yes.”

“So that would make you Ms. Fell?”

“It would make me Ms. Crowley,” she corrected.

The look of confusion must had been evident on his face as she elaborated. “My Dad got first dibs on the name. Though that does leave me curious, do you call every girl you meet, miss?”

“Only the ones that scare me.”

A wide smile spread across her face and Peter was faced with the mortifying realization he had said the words out loud.

“If I told you my name was Isabelle, would you be less scared,” she asked, still laughing at him behind her eyes.

Peter’s lip twisted upward despite himself. He did like her laugh, even the silent ones.

“Just a bit,” he said. “I’m Peter by the way, Peter Walsh.”

He offered her his hand, which she immediately took in hers.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Peter Walsh.”

“Nice to meet you too, Miss Isabelle Crowley.”

Their hands dropped. Peter swore he could feel his hand tingle ever so slightly.

“I suppose I’ll be seeing you around then,” she said. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, the thought of seeing her again leaving his brain a little fuzzy. He would be seeing her quite a bit if this worked out with her Dad. Almost every day. He did have a paper to finish after all.

Her head tilted to the side, her eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. 

His stomach dropped then. He had been staring too long.

“Right!” he said, just a little too loudly. “Of course you will.” He pointed vaguely towards the door behind him, not having it in him to fully turn away from her. “I’ll just see myself out and see you tomorrow, maybe?”

She shrugged. “Only if you want to get started sooner rather than later.”

He stared to nod. “Yes. Good. Research. Books. I definitely need to get started. Tomorrow.” He couldn’t stop nodding, even as he slowly made his way towards the front door.

His back hit something hard, and it was only then did he realize he hadn’t bothered to turn around. He whipped around to see the shelf he had run into rock slightly, but not damage had been done. 

Just above his head, he heard a small hiss. He looked up to see the snake staring at him. He didn’t think snakes were capable of showing any real emotion, but in that moment, he could have sworn the serpent was laughing at him.

He looked to Isabelle. She was trying her best, but the smile on her face would not be contained by the hand over her mouth.

Peter gave a short laugh, as if that would make it less embarrassing, and all but ran out of the shop.

The door shut behind him with a chime as cool sea air poured into his lungs. He took heaping gulps of it as if he had just come up from a deep dive. It hadn’t been real, had it? Logically it must have. It had just happened. All the same, the cobble stones beneath his feet, the sun glowing behind thin cloud, and the breeze against his skin felt more real than anything he had experienced in the last ten minutes. He turned back around, half expecting for the shop no longer to be there, like in all the story books where the protagonist can never find the little door beneath the staircase or the hole in the fence once they come back from the other side. But there it stood. The sign A. Z. Fell and Co. still hung over the shop door. Shelves of books could be made out through the window and Isabelle Crowley walked among them, book in hand, and the snake draped once again around her neck. 

Peter took another breath and let it out slowly.

“Fuck me.”

——————————————————————————————-

Isabelle couldn’t hold it in any longer. As soon as the door chimed shut, she let out a hearty laugh.

Her Dad joined her, his laughter coming out in a series of high pitched hisses. 

“I think that went rather well,” he mused.

“Yes, you’ve successfully traumatized a grad student,” Isabelle said.

“Asss if you wasn’t your idea.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes and walked over to the shelf the serpent was perched on. She held out her arm, allowing him to slither down and curl himself around her neck.

“Do you think he will come back?” Isabelle asked, idly.

“Oh, I think ssso,” Crowley answered. “Ssseemed like the determined sssort. Besidesss, he’s got a reason to come back.”

Isabelle nodded, taking a quick glance around at the shelves of books and all the knowledge they contained.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “There really is no other place like it, is there?”

Crowley hissed out a chuckle. 

She looked down at him, her brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing Izz, just sometimes, you act exactly like Aziraphale.”

She laughed it off, or at least tried to. The sound never even made it to her throat. She had assumed he was referring to her clear love of books, but something in his eyes told her otherwise.

“What did you think of him?” Crowley asked, before she could linger on the feeling.

“Who? Peter?”

Crowley shot her a sardonic look.

She shrugged, not knowing what else to do. “I don’t know. He seemed nice enough. A nervous wreck, but you did almost bite his face off.”

“Is that all?”

She stood silent for a moment. She wasn’t sure what to make of him. Everything in his demeanor and tone painted the image of a shy, slightly awkward academic. He was slim, but not overly so. Tall, but not too tall. A little pale, no doubt from the lack of sunlight in dark achieve basements. His hands fidgeted, but she didn’t get the impression he was perpetually nervous. All the same, there was something else about him.

His little speech spoke of an underlining passion. He knew what he had come there for and wasn’t going to leave until he got it. It hinted at a confidence she was interested to see more of.

Yes, she would like to see him again. She would like to talk to him and see if she could get him to smile that wide smile which lit up those green eyes of his. She couldn’t think of a single person she’d met with proper green eyes like that.

“Wouldn’t mind talking to him again,” she admitted. “Why do you ask?”

Crowley rocked his head from side to side, giving the effect of shrugging without shoulders. “No reason, just ssseemed like a bright young lad.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why is it I feel like you know something I don’t?”

“That’s because I do.”

Isabelle frowned, but Crowley countered by playfully nudging her with his scaly head.

“Nothing you need to worry about, my girl, crosssss my heart. All will reveal itself, soon enough.”

She wanted to press the matter, but let it go. If her Dad wanted to play his little game, she’d let him. No real harm could come of it.

“So, which one of us is going to tell Papa we’re allowing someone to rent his books?”

“I did no such thing,” Crowley defended. “That’sss all on you. You explain it to him.”

She let out a groan. 

“No good deed goes unpunished,” he teased.

“Right,” she grumbled.

It really was going to be a trick convincing her Papa. But then she thought of Peter, and all her doubts melted away. She could do it. She told him she could, and she would. No matter what it took.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment and kudos if you are so inclined.
> 
> If you like this, or at least want to more know about Peter, check out my side-blog: https://ineffable-dads.tumblr.com


End file.
